A decade ago, former military counterintelligence officer Terry Henry joined his precocious young daughter, Kyria, on a trip to a nursing home in order to allow its residents to play with their family dog, a golden retriever named riley. Terry was astounded by the transformations that unfolded before his eyes. Soon after, Terry and Kyria started their service dog organization, paws4people, with the goal of pairing dogs with human beings in need of healing, including traumatized and wounded war veterans and children living with physical, emotional, and intellectual disabilities. In A Dog's Gift, award-winning journalist and author Bob Drury movingly captures the story of a year in the life of paws4people and the broken bodies and souls the organization mends. The book follows the journey of pups bred by the organization from their loving, if rigorous, early training to an emotional event that terry and Kyria have christened "the bump," where each individual service dog chooses its new owner through an almost mystical connection that ignites the healing process. incorporating vivid storytelling, insights into canine wisdom, history, science, and moving tales of personal transformation, A Dog's Gift is a story of miracles bound to be embraced by not only the 60 million Americans who own dogs, but by anyone with a full heart and a loving soul. “Drury traveled with Henry and observed life-changing moments not only for the new dog owners, but also for prisoners whose lives were transformed by becoming trainers. He also chronicles painful occasions when Henry was forced to exclude an unsuitable trainer from the program or eliminate a veteran incapable of forming a relationship to a dog. Even this formerly hard-bitten reporter notes how he teared up on occasion. Overly sentimental but a great story nevertheless.” — Kirkus Reviews Bob Drury is a contributing editor at Men's Health and the author, coauthor, and editor of multiple bestselling nonfiction books. He lives in Manasquan, NJ. Chapter One Birth "Bob! It's time. Get down here." There is an urgency to Terry's voice that I've never heard Before. I roll out of bed, check my watch, and take the stairs two at a time. It is nearing midnight as I reach the whelping room, sliding across the floor like a cartoon character in my stocking feet. A rumpled Terry is on his knees in the penned-in nursery, cradling Claire's furry head in his arms. He is wearing his trademark uniform of khaki cargo pants, a black T- shirt, and a dark fleece, the clothes creased six ways from Sunday as a result of sleeping on an inflatable air mattress on the floor next to the laboring Golden Retriever. "Come on, baby," he whispers in a tone as soft as church music. "That's right. Everything's okay. We've done this before." The five-year-old Claire is about to give birth to her third litter of puppies. Although some female dogs can deliver up to the age of seven or eight, Terry and Kyria have decided that this will be Claire's last. Throughout this pregnancy, she has been acting "a little off," in Terry's words. "More jumpy; not eating right." Claire is not technically due for another three days. But this afternoon-- day sixty of a dog's typical sixty-three-day gestation period--her temperature dropped from 101 to 98 degrees, and earlier this evening she had ignored a bowl of milk, shredded lamb, and rice that Terry had nudged under her nose. Her lack of appetite worried him, and he sensed that she would drop the pups prematurely. Now Terry runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper brush cut as thick as otter fur and glances up at me with a weary smile. "Contractions started," he says. "Kyria's on her way." In an adjacent room, a temporary kennel, five curious dogs--three Goldens and two Labs--jostle against the door gate for a better view. Terry and Kyria have only relocated from northern Virginia to their new North Carolina headquarters in the past week--I am their first guest--and parts of the two-story building still resemble a construction site, while the scent of disinfectant fills the entire facility. I follow Terry's gaze as he juts his chin toward a table in the corner piled high with folded quilts and towels, the clean laundry stacked beside a box holding balls of yarn in various colors. "If you could hand me a blanket," he says, "and maybe start cutting that yarn into pieces of, oh, twelve inches or so." Yarn? The only birth I have ever been present for was my son Liam- Antoine's, fifteen years ago, and I am certain I would recall if there was a need for yarn. We were in a French maternity hospital north of Paris-- Liam-Antoine's mother is French--and I vividly remember the array of gleaming instruments on a table to the side of her birthing bed. The forceps. The medical scissors to snip the umbilical cord. Even the pan in which the placenta would eventually be placed. But no yarn. Terry seems to read my thoughts. "When the puppies arrive, we mark their birth order